


held together by a thread

by peet4paint



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drama, F/M, Family, Humor, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drama AU, Burt's married, Puck's older, Kurt's younger, and Sue's gonna put on the best damn production of 'Willy Wonka' ever to be seen in Lima, Ohio, despite Will and his insane hair, or her name's not Sue Sylvester.</p><p>OR</p><p>Puck's just getting by as best he can, when something turns his world on its ear.  And Burt's right there, completely willing to pick up the pieces.  But who's gonna keep Burt's life from falling apart at the seams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is on an indefinite hiatus!**
> 
> Wow, my first fic that didn't require AO3 warnings. Huh. Actual warnings for partner betrayal and suicidal thoughts. This is quite a dark fic, not in the instantly recognizable as dark!fic way, but in that insidious creeping way that can really seem more dark in the end. Specific warnings for each chapter.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely May and Becky for putting up with the inception of this. May, I'm sorry that after promising you about a million and a half other fics, this came out. Becky, thanks for telling me to trust my instincts. Also, as always, to Dre. You're my rock.

“The most important thing to remember is _not_ to have fun,” Sue says leaning over the table. She starts a slow point around the room, targeting each kid in there. “If I find any of you gremlins having fun?” She gestures with her thumb over her left shoulder. “You’re out.”

Puck chuckles to himself. One thing he’s found working with Sue Sylvester is that you’re never bored.

“Puckerman, you have anything to add to my already noteworthy speech?” Sue asks, turning to him.

Puck thinks about blowing the speech off, but the last time he did that his Ma took away his truck keys for a week. He sighs, looks down at the list. “All right. Everybody listen up. No eating in your costume. No drinking anything other than water in your costume. No wearing someone else’s costume. You leave your costume on a heap on the ground? You’re paying the dry cleaning bill. No fornicating in your costume,” he looks up at the sea of young faces surrounding him. “Ah, scratch that last one.”

One of the boys raises his hand. “What’s fornicating?” he asks.

“It’s when a man and a woman come together and do absolutely disgusting things to each other that make me puke,” Sue says, giving the kid a steely-eyed glare. “What was your name again?”

“Austin,” the kid says, overexcited at being noticed.

“Not anymore it isn’t. From now on, you’ll be known as “Brown-Noser.” Asian, make a note of that,” Sue says, gesturing at Tina.

Tina scribbles furiously in the huge black binder propped up in front of her. Puck leans over to her. “Why do you agree to work with this woman anyway?” he asks, voice pitched low.

“I always forget just how bad it is until I’m here, and by then—well, I’ve already signed a contract,” she says shrugging.

“Anything else to add, Puckerman?” Sue asks.

He looks over the list one more time, scratches the back of his ‘hawk. “Lesse—no eating, no drinking, no f—right, no losing buttons. You guys pop a button, you give it to me right away. If you lose the button because you put it in your pocket to give to me later, and your pocket suddenly develops a hole—you’re wearing your costume minus the button. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t crap buttons.”

“And with that touching sentiment, we’re moving on,” Sue says, walking over to her white-board. “Many of you may not know this, but Sue Sylvester began acting herself at the ripe age of three. I was selling lemonade before your parents were conceived.” She stops. Austin’s waving his hand back and forth right in front of her. “Yes Brown-Noser?”

“What’s conceived?” Austin asks.

+++

Sue smacks her clipboard against the table in front of her. “All right, let’s get started here people. Asian, I want you to read all the useless notes that nobody cares about anyway.”

“Y-y-you m-mean—the stage cues?” Tina asks.

“No, I mean the giant neon lights right in front of your eyes. Of course I mean the stage cues.” Sue sits in her chair, propping her feet on the table in front of her.

Puck clears his throat. There’s no way he’ll get out of here tonight unless he gets started measuring the kids pretty much right away. “I’m gonna get started Sue. Anyone you want me to take first?”

“Sure, take the ones with too little talent to get speaking roles. Let’s see here,” Sue says, setting her glasses more firmly on her nose and reading from the paper in front of her. “Illiterate, Ignorant, Irritating, and—hm, I know I’m missing someone. Who else here doesn’t have a speaking part?”

Austin’s hand flies up.

“Brown-Noser. I must have been too busy trying to pretend you _didn’t exist_ to remember you.” She looks up then, sees Puck still standing there. “Anything else I can help you with, Puckerman? Want somebody to wipe your nose for you? Maybe your ass too, while we’re at it?”

Puck signals the kids out of the room. While he’s walking out, he hears Sue saying, “Excuse me William. You’ll have to speak up. I’m trying to listen to you, really, but I keep getting distracted by the _giant brillo pad_ you have on the top of your head.”

“Well, this is gonna be a blast,” Puck says as soon as they get into the hallway.

An Old Bag waiting for her precious spawn shushes him.

“Christ,” he says, pulling open the door to an unused room. He motions for them all to go inside and shuts the door firmly behind them. The Old Bag gives one last sniff as the door is closing.

“All right. I’m gonna be measuring you,” Puck says. “Which means I need you to stand still. The more you guys squirm around, the longer it’s gonna take ‘til we’re done here. Understand?” Everybody nods. “Okay. Who wants to go first?”

Austin’s hand flies up.

+++

Puck’s done with the last kid but one, ‘Illiterate’ aka Felicia is just on her way out the door when Puck remembers how there’re all those new laws where he’s not supposed to be alone with any of the kids anymore. It’s fucked up but whatever. “Hey, kid,” he says to Felicia, “ask Sue to send some more kids in, will ya?”

The kid says, “Sure,” with a big grin and heads off to face the monster in her lair. Puck almost feels bad about sending the kid to her doom for a second—then he gets over it.

He turns back to the last kid, all big blue eyes and chubby little kid cheeks. The kid can’t be more than ten years old.

For a second Puck remembers when he was ten, back when he still had dreams and shit—a goal. Then he pushes it aside. He’s not ten anymore, damnit, and he doesn’t have time to just sit on his ass doing nothing but remembering.

“So,” Puck says, looking down at list of kids he’s already measured, “you must be…’Irritating’.” He looks down at the kid, then realizes what he just said. “Not that you’re actually irritating…uh…Sue can be a bi—a bad person.”

“No, it’s all right,” the kid says, all subdued. “It’s probably fairly accurate.”

Puck sighs. He knew the idea of Sue directing children’s theatre was a bad one the moment he heard it, but it kinda seems like even he didn’t know _how_ bad. “Okay—but whether she’s right or not I still need your real name. So you are…”

The kid startles for a second then says, “Kurt Hummel,” hands behind his back, like that’s how he answers every day at school or something. All quiet and contained.

And Puck starts writing it down, ‘Kurt Hummel’ when he hears what the kid actually said. “Hummel—how’s that spelled?”

“H-U-double-M-E-L,” the kid—Kurt—says.

Puck drops his pen. His grip just slips for a second, and then it’s falling to the crummy carpeting and lying there. Puck bends over to get it. When he’s back upright again he says, “Uh—you Burt Hummel’s kid? ‘Hummel Tires and Lube’ Burt Hummel?” It’s weird hearing that name. Yeah this probably isn’t Burt’s kid or anything. Hell, Puck’s never even met Burt, let alone any member of his family. But it would be kinda neat if Kurt was Burt’s kid. Maybe Burt would be picking Kurt up from practices and Puck would get a chance to talk to him about Karofsky.

“Yes, actually—I am.” Kurt says, still looking a little scared or something, but maybe starting to open up to Puck a little. There’s a tiny smile on his face and everything—like it’s just waiting to be brought out.

And then there’s a knock on the door and two more kids are poking their heads around the door. “Sue said to tell you we were ready to be measured, since—what was it again? Oh, yeah, we’re too short to get real roles.”

Puck turns back to Kurt and says, “Hey, kid, you wanna be my helper here? Hold the measuring tape when I tell you to and all?” And yeah it’s kind of ridiculous to have a kid who’s less than five feet tall holding a tape measure, but Puck’s always been a fan of the ridiculous.

“A-all right,” Kurt says and the smile starts to grow.

“Great,” Puck says and turns back to the two new kids. “So what’s Sue calling you?” he asks. He feels a smile on his face, too. Pretty rare nowadays, but hell, he’ll take it.

+++

It’s over an hour later when he finally gets to the adults in the production. As Rabbi Greenburg heads out, Puck hears another voice behind him saying, “So that’s where you’ve been son. I thought you’d been kidnapped or something.”

Puck turns around and that’s—that’s gotta be Burt Hummel. Karofsky talked about him enough back in the day—his nose, and his baseball caps—and then there’s the fact that he called Kurt son.

“Hey, so you the costumer of this thing?” Burt asks him, holding out his hand for Puck to shake.

Puck does—firm grip. He says, “Nah, you can just call me the costumer’s little helper. Ma does the actual costuming and shit.”

“Too bad,” Burt says, finally letting go. “I was gonna try and influence you not to put me in pink. For some reason, they keep putting me in pink.” He holds his arms out from his sides. “Do I look like the kind of guy who looks good in pink?”

Puck chuckles a little. “Sorry, man. I got no say in this shit. Just don’t let Sue hear you saying you don’t wanna be in pink. That’s the only way you stand a chance in hell of getting out of it, far as I figure.” And it’s weird, kinda. That Burt’s apparently acting in this thing. Puck never knew Burt Hummel was involved in theatre. But Puck figures there’s a lot he doesn’t know.

“So, you done with him,” Mr. Hummel asks, nodding at Kurt.

And Puck’s not—still has both of the principle kids to measure, and half of the adults left. But hell, the kid’s been a real trooper. He’s not gonna keep him any longer than he has to. “Yeah, sure,” Puck says, sketching a wave. “I think I’ve kept him long enough for one night.”

The Hummels have been gone for at least a minute when Puck realizes his mistake. “Wait,” he calls, throwing open the door. “I still gotta get your measurements.” But apparently the Hummels are really frickin fast. They’re completely out of sight, probably already back in Sue’s clutches. “Crap.”

+++

Puck doesn’t manage to get Burt measured until they’re all done for the night. He keeps trying to get Burt to come with him, but every time Puck sticks his head in the rehearsal room, Sue shoves somebody else at him.

So everyone’s making their way out the door when it’s Burt and Kurt and Puck back in the little measuring room. “Remember, no pink,” Burt says, as Puck’s got the tape measure around his middle.

And after three hours of it, Puck’s sick, sick, SICK of small talk. He tries to dredge up a chuckle, but its frankly past him. So he just lets the tape measure go, writes down the measurements on his list. He’s past words somehow, so instead of telling Burt to turn around for inseam measure, he kind of reaches around him with one arm, and between his legs with the other.

“So, Sue…” Burt says. “She always like that?”

And Puck’s laughing then, deep belly chuckles that keep rolling out of him, almost against his will. “You don’t know the half of it.” Puck says, bending down a little more. He’s got Burt Hummel’s crotch right in his eye line, but he just doesn’t care enough for it to affect him anymore. He checks the top of the tape measure, makes sure it’s high enough, then looks back down at the bottom. “I—uh, you know Karofsky? I used to be best friends with him,” he says, words drawn out of him. Puck’s been meaning to mention it since he saw Burt Hummel, knew he was part of this production.

But at the same time he hasn’t wanted to because he’s been afraid Burt would ask, “How is he?” And Puck—Puck hasn’t got a fucking clue how Karofsky is anymore. Burt doesn’t ask that though. He coughs, says, “Oh, yeah? What’s he been up to?”

Puck drops the tape measure, gets up to write down the measurement. He’s not gonna get an award or anything for info on ‘what Karofsky’s been up to,’ but at least he’s got something. “He’s living in Maine,” Puck says. He laughs a little, “Gay married to Azimio, the big freak. Last I heard they’d adopted a baby from like Indonesia or Ethiopia or something.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Hummel says. “Good for him. I always try to keep track of the kids when they take off, but I lost touch with Karofsky. I think he blocked me on facebook.”

“Yeah,” Puck grimaces. “He blocked pretty much everyone from Lima. The whole gay thing—some people didn’t take it well.”

“That’s just stupid,” Burt says, looking over at Kurt for some reason. “People are gonna judge you no matter what. Burying your head in the sand isn’t gonna help matters any.” He looks at Puck, scratches his head through the hat. “ _Can_ you block people on facebook? Let me tell you I’ve got a couple former clients I wouldn’t mind not hearing from anymore.”

“Yeah, man. Just click the little hide button on the side of the comment. Then they can keep writing as much shit as they want to and you never have to see it,” Puck says.

“Ah, thanks,” Burt says. He checks his watch, says, “When did it get so late? C’mon kid. We gotta get going.” Puck starts getting his shit together—hopefully he can avoid running into Sue on his way out. But then there’s a hand on his arm, and then he’s shaking Burt’s hand all over again. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Noah,” Puck says. And it’s weird how easy it slips off his tongue. Being back home here is messing with his head. Turning him back into the same kid who took off from Lima almost ten years ago with big expectations.

“Noah,” Burt says with a smile that promises many nights of mischief to come. “Nice to meet you Noah.”

And then Burt and Kurt are out the door. Puck goes back to gathering everything up. He’s just got everything together when Sue barrels into the room, saying, “Well, _that_ was a tremendous waste of my precious time. Will Schuester is a horse’s ass—completely incapable of adding any meat to a part. And the dynamics are all off. The number of spawn in this—it’s going to be a reprisal of “The Children of the Corn” instead of the best production of “Willy Wonka” known to mankind. Puckerman, give me some good news. Tell me you’ll act in this travesty.”

And Puck’s mouth is opening, saying, “Sure,” against his will.

Sue slaps him on the back. She says, “Best news I’ve heard all evening,” then heads out, Tina following in her wake, weighed down with binders and boxes and bags.

Puck stands there in shock for a full five minutes after they’ve gone. There’s no way he said that. There’s no way he actually was stupid enough to agree to act for Sue again. He bangs his head against the wall, once, twice, then once more for good measure. She’s gotta have some kind of supernatural power or something. The power of persuasion. Or maybe she’s some kind of puppetmaster. Puck grabs his shit and heads out. _Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Puppetmaster._

+++

“How did it go, Noah?” Puck’s Ma says as soon as he’s got the door open. It startles him a little. He figured she’d be in bed by now; she’s generally in bed by eight-thirty and it’s almost ten.

“Christ Ma,” Puck says, throwing the backpack full of measuring shit and the listings of people on the hall carpeting. “Why aren’t you in bed yet?”

“I wasn’t tired,” she says, brushing her free hand through her hair. She’s braced up with the other hand on her cane. “You know how I get Noah. So tell me. Did Sue cast this one better than the last one? I saw William at Target the other day. He said she cast him again.”

Puck rolls his eyes. “I can’t tell what way she wants to jump him. She’s gonna either kill him or screw him by the end of this. What I can’t figure is why he just keeps coming back for more.”

“It’s in his blood,” she says. She turns a smile on him. “Just like you, Noah. It’s in your blood too.” The smile fades then. “You must’ve gotten that from your father’s side of the family. He always was one for the spotlight. And his cousin—Carrie—I heard she was a newscaster in Cleveland.”

“I know, Ma,” Puck sighs, exasperated. “Ah,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “She, uh, did it again. Talked me into being in this. I don’t think I even have any lines, but, ya know.”

“Well that’s good,” Puck’s Ma says, all happy and shit. And—what? What the fuck. Puck figured she’d be as pissed as he is. That Sue managed to just _talk_ him into this shit. Her all…’Can you be in this’ and him just saying ‘yes’ like he doesn’t even have a backbone or anything? That’s fucked up.

His Ma continues with, “It’ll be good for you to be associated with the Lima Lighthouse Players. Once you get in there, you can get a part anywhere. It’s good for you to be involved in the community like this, Noah. Keeps you out of trouble.”

Puck groans. “Christ, Ma. It’s fine. I’m fine. I haven’t even been out since last January.”

“Do you think that’s what I want, Noah?” his Ma asks, and he can see where this conversation is gonna go. Tries to think of something to say to derail it, but he’s got nothing. “Do you think I want you to just sit around here with me, day after day? Don’t you think I want you to have your own life? Maybe meet a nice Jewish girl—“

“Ma,” he says, cutting her off before she can get to him having five kids and a successful deli or some shit. “Ma, guess who’s in this? Burt Hummel. Ya know, ‘Hummel Tires and Lube’ Burt Hummel. The one who gave Dave a job.”

“Well, that’s nice,” she says. “Isn’t that nice? So what’s he like? Is he going to be good?”

“I dunno, Ma,” Puck says. “I didn’t even see him doing the read-through. Sue had me in another room.”

“Oh, and who else is in this one,” she asks. And score one for Puck. Successfully averted another attempt to get him to talk about his ‘future.’ The way Puck figures it, this is all the future he’s gonna get. And the less he has to think about that the better, for everyone involved.

+++

It’s weird. Puck hasn’t really thought about Karofsky for a few years now, other than the general _wonder how he’s doing_ he thinks about everybody from high school whenever he’s thinking about the old days.

But being around Burt brings Karofsky back—in a big way.

It’s in everything he says, everything he does. The way he judges you first and either finds you up to his standards or wanting. And Puck—Puck, apparently is up to Burt’s standards.

The ‘adults’ are done for the night—though Puck’s not sure how much of an adult he really is. He may be twenty-eight, but part of him is still that eighteen-year-old chomping at the bit to finally get the hell out of this hellhole. Puck’s about to take off, when Burt grabs him on his way out the door.

“Hey, so Karofsky’s gay married, huh?” Burt asks. “I’m happy for the guy. You still in contact with him?”

“Nah,” Puck says. “Like I said, he doesn’t really want anything to do with Lima. Or anyone here.”

Off to the side, Sue’s yelling at the kids. “You call that energy? I have more energy in my left pinky than all of you put together. Let’s try that again.”

Will steps in. “Now, Sue, don’t be so hasty. I’m seeing some good things here. Hannah, maybe you could try to be a little louder. And Gabe, you could try smiling a little more. We all want to see those big dimples.”

“Uh oh,” Puck says, pulling Burt out of the room. “Better leave before they blow. Seriously, those two should never work together.” He glances at Tina as they leave. She raises an arm almost as if she’s asking him to take her with them. He spares her a second of pity, then he’s over it. She signed up for this shit herself. She should know better after last year.

“So, you work with her before? What’s she like?” Burt asks.

“The best in the area. Hell, she’d be the best in the universe if she wasn’t so impossible to work with,” Puck says, chuckling.

“A real bitch, huh?” Burt asks. And there’s something about it—the words he says or how he says them or maybe just the way he’s looking at Puck—that smacks Puck over the head with how much it reminds him of Karofsky.

Puck elbows him, just like he would’ve elbowed Karofsky—shifts his eyebrows. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says. But then the memory is gone, and it’s Burt there. And Puck feels a little silly, jabbing somebody in the arm like they’re all tight and shit when the two of them hardly know each other. “Ah—if it were just that she was a bitch, it’d be fine. I mean, there’re bitches and bastards all over in this business. You kinda gotta be to carry off directing. But the thing about Sue Sylvester is, she expects the impossible out of you.”

Burt chuckles a little. “Yeah, I know what you mean about the whole bitches and bastards thing. It seems like every director in Lima is a total pill.”

And, huh. That sounds like maybe Burt’s done this before. “So, you been doing this for a while?” Puck asks, all curious now.

“Well, Kurt and I have been doing this every year for a few years now. We did ‘Oliver’ last year, under Bryan Ryan. That guy was certifiable,” Burt says, scratching the tip of his nose.

“Oh, god. Bryan Ryan. You’re shitting me,” Puck says. “Christ, he is _totally_ insane. He did our sets last year for ‘Moon Over Buffalo.’ You should’ve seen those things.”

The kids are coming out, then. Racing from the room as if Satan himself is on their heels. Puck figures Sue is close enough it doesn’t exactly make a difference. “Hey, kid,” he says, when Kurt walks up to them. The kid looks as white as a sheet. Puck ruffles his hair, says, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better. Eventually. After all, she can’t actually be on stage with us.”

Kurt gives him a strained little smile. He turns to his dad, asks, “Can we leave, now? Please?”

Puck looks away from them for a second—sees a giant shadow on the other side of the door. Two guesses as to who it is. He says a hasty ‘goodnight,’ and takes off before Sue can corner him and talk him into a bigger role or some shit.

As he walks to his truck, he can’t help humming a little to himself. _What we see will defy explanation._

+++


	2. Chapter 2

“So, seriously? There’s kids playing the oompa loompas? Isn’t that wrong somehow? You need midgets.” Sam tucks the box cutter in his jeans and starts sliding the Mac’N’Cheese on the shelf, old stuff in front.

“Midgets? In Lima? Where the hell do you expect to get ‘em Evans? You want me to pull ‘em out of my butt?” Puck’s restocking pasta half-way down the aisle from Sam. Unlike Sam, though, he just shoves the old stuff to the back. Who the hell gives a rat’s ass if they get old pasta anyway?

“There’s this town…in Wisconsin. Alberta or Algoma or something. It has the highest percentage of midgets in the United States.” Sam gnaws his lip a little, straightens a box that was set to fall over. “Or was it Washington?”

Puck gives him a look. “The important thing to remember is that Sue keeps treating these kids like they’re actually adults or something. Like just because they’re playing the part of a midget, they actually are midget adults. I mean, she was all up in arms because Schue told her she couldn’t have them spit chewing tobacco. I mean, shit. She wants somebody to chaw on stage why the fuck doesn’t she just ask me?”

“Noah!” comes a voice behind him. Puck turns, and of course Sandy had to hear that. Sandy always has to hear everything he does wrong. The weirdo must walk around with like sensitized ears for swearing and hitting on customers and shit. “I think we already had our little discussion this week about swearing. You know what that means.”

Puck sighs. This is why he hates working late nights. Yeah, the pay is good and he doesn’t have to put up with any whiny customers complaining because they’re out of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Again. But he still has to deal with Sandy R. And his weird topless fixation. Puck tugs the shirt over his head and tucks it in his back pocket.

“All right boys. I want to see this place fully stocked by morning,” Sandy says, leaning a little closer to Puck. “Oh, Noah. You sorted these all out of order.” He braces himself on Puck’s shoulder and resorts the pasta Puck had just sorted. He ends up knocking half of the boxes down, and stumbling into Puck in his attempt to set them to rights. “Oh, look at how clumsy I am. You’ll have to get those for me Noah. My sciatica.”

Puck bends over and grabs the pasta boxes. He shoves them haphazardly onto the shelf. Behind him, Sam’s saying, “You have to be more careful, Mr. R. One of these time’s you’re going to run into Puckerman and the two of you’ll end up flat out on the floor.”

Sandy makes a groaning noise. Puck swears he hears Sandy saying, “One can only hope,” as he’s getting back up, but he’s gotta just be hearing things.

He turns back to see the two of them looking at him. It kinda creeps him out a little. He makes to keep putting pasta on the shelf, but Sandy’s hand lands on his. “No, Noah. I’m afraid if I leave you two boys together you’ll do nothing but gossip all night long. You’re coming up front and restocking the registers.”

“But that’s right by your office. Doesn’t Becky usually do that? So you can keep an eye on her?” Puck asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I think Samuel here can supervise Becky for one night. Can’t you Samuel?” Sandy asks, turning back to Sam.

Sam smiles, says, “Sure, Mr. R. Sounds great. Becky and I can talk about Puck’s play. Where is she anyway?”

Sandy’s eyes grow round as saucers.

“You didn’t,” Puck says, moving to the freezer section. He’s hoping he gets there soon enough that the fallout’s not too bad.

+++

Becky’s a sweet chick, and one of the easiest people to work with ever except for one simple flaw—if you ever leave her completely alone she dive-bombs the ice cream section.

When Puck reaches her, she already has three containers open, Triple Fudge Chunk, Banana-Rama, and Blue Moon. “Really Becky? Blue Moon?” he asks, grabbing the containers and putting the lids back on.

He holds a hand out to Becky, tugs her up from the floor. “Sorry,” Becky says, sounding disappointed in herself. She walks with him back to the break room.

Puck drops the ice cream containers onto the counter and turns around to give Becky a little of the hairy eyeball. “I mean, Banana-Rama I can understand. It has Banana in the name. But who would ever try Blue Moon more than once? That shit tastes like dead Fruity Pebbles.”

Becky looks at him, hopefully. “You mean…you’re not m-mad?” she asks.

“Nah, why would I be mad?” Puck asks, grabbing a plastic spoon and paper bowl from the disposables. “Now I get to have ice-cream sundaes for dinner.” He takes one spoonful right out of the container, heaping so high some of it ends up dropping off his spoon and onto his chest. He shivers. It feels gross—slimy, like snot or something.

Then he hears Sandy gasp. “Oh, my. Look at you. Here, let me get that for you.” Sandy kneels down as if to lick it off or something, but then he pulls a pink monogrammed silk handkerchief out of his pocket and starts dabbing up chocolate fudge chunk. Puck really wonders about the guy sometimes. Monograms? Really? Who even does that shit anymore? “There, all better,” Sandy says, giving Puck’s belly a pat.

Puck snorts, looks at the trail of chocolate ice cream remains on his chest. It’s not gonna be all better until he gets a shower, but whatever.

“I-I’m sor-ry Sandy,” Becky says, twisting her hands in front of her.

“Try to remember we run a respectable business here,” Sandy says, all stern. “Next time think about something before you do it. Do I want to have Noah here working naked every night? Of course I do. Do I actually have him naked? Well?”

“H-he’s half naked,” she says, then gulps, maybe realizing it’s not good to point out Sandy’s flaws. Or maybe trying to swallow the spoonful of Blue Moon she just managed to smuggle right under Puck’s nose. Who’s to say?

“That’s right,” Sandy says, all snappish. “ _Half_ naked. This isn’t some all you can eat ice cream buffet. Or man buffet for that matter.” Sandy loses his train of thought for a second—just stares off into space in the general direction of Puck’s chest. Puck snaps his fingers under Sandy’s nose. “What was I saying? Oh, right. This is a respectable place of business.”

 _Yeah_ , Puck thinks. _Respectable, my ass._ Everyone in town knows that the L-Mart is the only local place that employs former convicts and shit. Puck really didn’t want to ever come back to Lima, but he _really_ , really never wanted to have to work at the L-Mart.

“S-so,” Becky says, cutting off Puck’s train of thought. “C-can I have _half_ a c-container of,” she pauses, takes a gulping breath, “ice cream?”

Sandy looks down his nose at her for a second then he sighs. “You may as well. They’re already opened anyway. But next time I’m taking this out of your check missy. No more ice cream buffet for you or you’ll be sorry.”

Becky doesn’t hear him at all. She’s too busy inhaling Blue Moon ice cream as fast as she can get it in her mouth.

Puck shakes his head. He really needs to teach the girl a thing or two about decent ice cream flavors.

+++


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts.

“So how’s everything coming along?” Puck asks his Ma when he gets home that morning.

“About as well as can be expected. The budget they’ve given me is absolutely criminal,” she says. She takes a sip of coffee, looks back down at the paper. “How was work?”

“Same old, same old,” Puck says, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “Becky got into the ice cream again. I thought Sandy was gonna have a coronary.”

“Sandy the man or Sandy the woman? I can never keep those two straight,” she says, folding the paper into quarters and reaching for a pen half-way across the table.

Puck gets it for her, rolls it over. “Sandy R. Dude Sandy. He always works nights, remember and Sandy O always works days.”

“Oh, that’s right,” his Ma says a little absently. “What’s a five-letter word for obscene?”

“Crude,” Puck says, pouring coffee into his mug. For some reason that makes him think of Karofsky again, which just makes him think of Burt again. “Hey, Ma. Did you know Burt’s actually been in plays before?”

“Burt? Who’s Burt?” she asks, writing another answer into the cross-word puzzle. “How about…hm...’grow some _blank_ of your own’?”

“Funk,” Puck says, thinking back to his and Karofsky’s cover band. Christ they were shitty, but man they had a good time. “Burt’s Burt. Ya know. Burt Hummel. ‘Hummel Tires and Lube.’ Where Dave worked for, like, three years or something.”

“How did you get that one, Noah? I didn’t even give you the number of letters.” She looks up at him then. “Noah, you’re so smart. If you’d only try more. Maybe go to the community college…”

Puck pushes himself away from the counter. He keeps his coffee clutched protectively to his chest. “Don’t start with this shit, Ma. You know I don’t wanna hear it. I’m working—doing the theatre crap. Don’t start with this ‘you gotta go to school to make something of yourself’ shtick.”

His Ma sighs her deep heavy sigh. “I only want the best for you. You know I only want the best for you.” She takes a sip of her coffee, starts on another track. “I was talking with Joel Berry yesterday, you know, Rachel’s Jewish father.” She leans in as if to impart some terribly important gossip. “You’ll never guess. She’s pregnant. She only met the boy a few weeks before they found out. She must be one of those loose women. I’m almost glad you didn’t ever end up together. They were married last month. Just a small affair. Only a couple hundred.”

This numbness hits him, right in the gut. And then he’s yawning, saying, “Sorry, Ma. I’m crashing. It was a rough night.”

The escape upstairs is easy enough. For some reason he’s pretty sure the rest of the night isn’t gonna be as easy.

+++

Hearing about Rachel’s wedding—it hits Puck like a punch to the gut. He never really expected it to work out between him and her. Only in some way he must’ve. Some part of him must’ve expected them to get their fairy-tale ending somehow.

They never dated, not seriously anyway. They went out a few times for shits and giggles, but never took the next step. Something always seemed to come up.

But, when he was locked up, she was the only person other than his Ma who’d ever written him. She seemed to always think he was better than he really was somehow. Think that he was gonna make something of himself.

She was the reason he got started in the theatre business in the first place. He saw the flier for Sue’s Troup and remembered Rachel in that red dress singing her heart out in ‘Anything Goes.’ He remembered how afterward she seemed to sparkle like the frickin’ stars or some shit. How he couldn’t even look at her she was so bright.

So when he’d gotten back to town half-a-dozen years later and a helluva lot wiser, he’d seen the flier for a production of ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ and all he could remember was Rachel—Rachel Berry singing her heart out—so he’d gone to auditions. Sue took one look at him and said, “What have you been wasting your life on for the past twenty years. You have talent, kid, and Sue Sylvester doesn’t say that lightly.”

That whole first show, all through rehearsals, he couldn’t help but think about Rachel, wonder if she’d be in the audience, see _him_ shine this time around.

Only, when the production came around, she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there for the next one either.

Or the one after that.

It got to the point where he was daring her to come see him. Only it was like she never got the memo, ‘cause she never showed—never seemed to care that he was actually doing something with his life that started with her.

And then he got cast in his first play—screw that musical shit, actual plays were the real acting—and for the first performance ever, he was doing it for him.

But even then, part of him still expected her to be there—maybe with a stuffed cat or something—even at his last performance.

 _Guess she won’t be at the next one._

Part of him thinks he should be crying. But it’s like it’s too much. Too much pain all at once. It’s like someone—no not someone, Rachel—it’s like Rachel ripped his fucking heart out and—no, that’s not it either. It’s like she’s had his heart this whole while, and him just knowing that it was warm and cared for made him feel special somehow.

Only now, suddenly, he knows _knows_ she hasn’t been looking out for his heart this whole while. He knows it’s been out in the fucking gutter this whole time, being pissed on and puked on and having fucking garbage strewn over it. And just knowing how it’s been fucked over—just knowing how it’s been abused like that—makes him feel like he has this wasting disease or some shit. Makes him feel like he’s just gonna shrivel up until the rest of him is just as small as his poor abused heart.

So he doesn’t cry. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling, and wondering how long he’d rot in hell if he shot himself.

+++

Rehearsal that night is hell. For some reason every word Sue says reminds Puck of Rachel. And of course Will’s even worse. It’s seriously fucked up acting in something with a former teacher, but he and Will have got it down to an art form.

“Puck,” Will says, grabbing him by both shoulders. He looks at him like if he looks deep enough he can see inside Puck’s soul or something. “Is everything okay?”

Puck shifts his shoulders a little, tries to shake him off. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, looking away.

Will doesn’t give him an inch. “I just wanted to say, I know what your mom’s budget is and I’m willing to bring in my own cane from home. I’m sure it will be hard enough for her to find the purple suit coat.”

Puck snorts. “Right. Find a purple suit coat. ‘Cause you can just find those around every frickin’ corner.”

“Is she having problems finding one?” Will asks, totally freaking out.

For a second it makes Puck feel better. It’s always fun to get Will all high strung and shit. But Puck didn’t even try this time, and hell, half the fun is figuring out what will get Will’s goat. He reaches up, pulls Wills hands off his shoulders. “She’s making it. Fucking calm down man.”

He turns to walk away, but doesn’t even get five steps when Will’s hand is closing on his shoulder again, from behind this time. “Whatever it is, Noah, I’m here. You can tell me.”

Puck doesn’t even look back. “No, I really can’t,” he says with a bitter smile on his lips. “You’re the last person I’d talk to about this.”

He walks out the door and keeps walking. Doesn’t stop until he’s gotten to some room upstairs he’s probably not supposed to be in. The tears come then, not normal tears—hell not much actual tears at all, just body shaking sobs. Wails that he bites back inside, chokes on. He’s all snotty, nose dripping all over, when he finally feels like maybe he can make his way back downstairs without it all starting up again. He looks around him for a tissue. “Crap!” there’re none in sight.

+++

“So, you hear the one about the two car salesmen?” Burt says, as the two of them are sitting around off-stage, waiting for their entrance. Puck had been forced to cut through the room they’re using for rehearsals to get toilet paper in the bathroom. And yeah, he’s man enough that it doesn’t really bother him. He can do whatever the hell he wants to. But, still.

He’s just counting the minutes until he can get the fuck out of here. Blow this fucking popsicle stand and all that shit. But time seems to have stopped, be completely still and shit.

“Hey, Noah,” Burt says. And oh, yeah. Puck was supposed to be paying attention or something. Listening to the joke and appreciating it. “You okay?” Burt asks.

And Puck—he just bites his lip. Shakes his head no. “I’m really not.”

“You wanna talk?” Burt asks.

And no, no Puck can’t talk about this shit. Not with Will sitting five feet from them and Tina sitting just across the room. Not with Rabbi Greenburg right there on ‘stage.’ Not with all of them knowing what a fool he was, what a fool he’s always been.

“Or we can just sit here,” Burt says. “Being manly and stoic.”

Puck bites back a shaky smile.

“Hey, look at it this way, at least you can always claim it’s allergies. There’s enough shit in the air right now, anyone would believe you,” Burt says.

And Puck chuckles a little at that.

Burt’s hand slaps him on the back. Then he’s leaning in, looking at Will. “Did you catch that guy before? He told the kids they need to practice ‘envisioning themselves in the spotlight’.”

And isn’t that just like Will. Fuck. “That’s just swell isn’t it. Too bad for the kids that’ll never be in the spotlight. That’ll never be in another production again after this one. And that’s not even talking about the fact that these are like twelve-year-olds. How the fuck would they even know what ‘envision’ meant?”

Burt grins at him. “Exactly.”

And Puck’s grinning back. For the first time since he heard about fucking Rachel and her fucking wedding he’s fine—well, he’s not fine, but he’s not miserable.

+++


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puck/Burt almost!porn
> 
> Also, child enticement is treated lightly

Puck and Karofsky knew each other—in that general sense that two kids who go to the same school most of their lives know each other—for seven years. But then they both got involved in football, and it became a little more personal.

When they were first getting to know each other, Puck pretty much hated Karofsky’s guts. Puck was an asshole, but Karofsky took abuse of power to a whole new level. Just because he was on the football team he felt like he had the right to bully the whole school, not just the nerds and freaks, but even the other football players.

It was sort of a mutual avoidance for them. Puck pretended Karofsky didn’t exist and Karofsky pretended Puck didn’t exist right back. Except for when none of the rest of his jock friends were around. Then he’d acknowledge Puck’s existence—make small talk about their chances that season or mock Coach Tanaka’s sweat patterns.

And it wasn’t like Puck needed Karofsky as a friend. He had Matt and Mike. The three of them were like the three musketeers, together through good shit and bad.

But then Mike got into this super-exclusive private school for _dancing_ of all things and Matt’s parents moved for work.

And right around the same time, Azimio got put in juvie for a semester.

And there the two of them were, no one else to really turn to. They were the only sophomores in Varsity football, and as much of a bully as Karofsky was, he wasn’t nearly as bad to Puck as the upper classmen were to the two of them. In a way, it was in Puck’s interest to make nice with the kid. Karofsky was solid muscle, bigger than most of the upper classmen.

But despite sticking together, they weren’t friends. It was like, because they’d built up this mutual dislike over the years they didn’t have a chance of breaking through it all.

Then one day, Puck had walked into the shower room earlier than usual, and there Karofsky was, singing his heart out. And he wasn’t singing a punk song, or alternative, or even classic rock. He was singing “I Feel Pretty.”

Puck had frozen. He knew—knew—that if Karofsky caught him gawking there wasn’t a chance in hell Puck would make it out alive—he’d end his life a puddle on the floor of the shower room.

But as soon as he froze, his hand froze too, and of course that made his bathroom caddy drop right out of his hands, spill all over the floor.

Karofsky had turned, startled. Their eyes had met—and Puck could see—just _see_ —that Karofsky was only a second away from beating the shit out of him. So his mouth had opened up and he’d said the first thing that flew into his head. “I’m in love with Berry.”

It wasn’t even true, was the thing. Not back then. Yeah, he’d dug her, but he wasn’t in love with her. She—she was like this unreachable thing. Something he’d wanted just because he couldn’t have it.

But at least it’d been enough to stop Karofsky dead in his tracks. Back then Rachel had been this huge spaz, all kitten sweaters and weird colored tights and tripping over her own two feet half the time. And she’d been frickin’ obnoxious too, always giving her opinion in class about _every single thing_ like anybody even cared about her opinion anyway. So it put him on an even level with Karofsky. Possibly lower even.

 

Then, the next thing Puck knew, instead of Karofsky punching him into a puddle on the floor he was telling Puck all about his job. How Burt was really awesome, but at the same time he was this total freak who played show tunes all the damn time.

And then Puck was admitting he’d learned how to play the entire score from ‘West Side Story’ on his guitar, just because he knew it was Rachel’s favorite musical.

By the end of that day, they’d been friends. They’d been the kind of friends you spent your whole life looking for and sometimes never found.

Now, though. Now—on the days when he catches Burt singing “I Feel Pretty,” half off-key and loud enough to make even Sue proud. Now he wonders if he and Karofsky had actually been friends. If it hadn’t been him and Burt even back then. Karofsky putting Burt on for him like a second skin, and Puck just knowing—just knowing that the two of them would be best friends.

Sometimes he looks at Burt and wishes he’d visited Karofsky at work back then, become friends with Burt back then.

And then Burt turns to him, waves him into the song. And Puck forgets to feel anything but this building feeling of something growing between them.

+++

Sue’s figuring out the Candy Man scene. She’d had to kick the dude out who was playing Candy Man after Will had found out he was wanted in three separate states for child enticement.

“William, the man is wanted for child enticement. It’s not like he actually killed any of the little kiddies,” Sue had said.

“No, Sue,” Will had said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not budging on this one. We’re not having a child enticer in a production of “Willy Wonka.” It’s like asking an alcoholic to be a bar tender and still lead a healthy life.”

“I lead—“ *hic*”—a perfectly _nor_ —“ *hic* “—mal life, Will. I don’t know wha—“ *hic-cup* “whoa, now. That was a big one. What was I saying again?” April had said. Then she’d tried to use whatever was in her flask to smooth Kurt’s hair down. Kurt’s hair had singed on the ends.

Will had said, “My point, exactly,” then made a sweeping gesture at April.

“Fine! You get your way in this, William, but I will win this war. Sue Sylvester rolls over for no one,” Sue had said, then she’d grumbled a little under her breath. She’d turned to April and held out her hand. “Hand it over Roadie.” April handed over the flask. “Well, William. You happy now? I’m taking away addictive substances from everyone in the play, now.” She’d held her hand out toward Will then. “All right buddy, hand it over.”

“Uh—I’m sorry, Sue, but I’m a little confused here. What, precisely, am I supposed to be addicted to?” Will had asked.

“That snakeskin oil you put on what you refer to as hair, William.” Sue had said.

Will had raised his eyebrow, but Sue had stood firm. Finally, Will had reached into his pocket and pulled out a kinda disgusting looking bottle full of something that looked like a cross between snot and jizz. “Fine, Sue. You win. Again.”

Sue had taken the bottle and shaken it under Will’s nose. “One thing you have to remember, William. Sue Sylvester always wins in the end. And in the beginning. And in the middle.” Sue had made a thinking expression, then she’d said, “Strike that. Sue Sylvester always wins. Always.” She’d waved the bottle under Will’s nose one last time then walked out the door.

In the end though, they’re still short a Candy Man.

Sue keeps running through the scene, anyhow. Like she thinks if she runs through it enough times an invisible Candy Man who’s been there the whole time will suddenly materialize, right in the middle of it.

So, they’re running through it for the third time that night when, right in the middle of things, Sue barks, “Puck. Puckerman. Where are you?” Puck waves a hand half-heartedly. “Right. I want you to sing this song. And don’t fuck up.”

And, yeah, it’d be one thing if Puck had ever been here while they rehearsed this scene, but he hadn’t needed to. It’s just the kids and the Candy Man. Or, ya know, if he’d ever watched the movie. But every time he’d tried to, he’d only gotten through the first five minutes before the main kid pissed him off too much for Puck to keep watching. That kid was a whiny little bitch.

So, Puck kind of just stands there, humming the song through half-hearted.

It must piss Sue off, because after going through it just once she calls a break. “If you’re not all back here in five minutes I’m going after you. I don’t care if you’re in the bathroom stall taking a giant crap, I will look for you and I will find you, or my name’s not Sue Sylvester.”

So, Puck quick goes over to the side where he sees some music sitting out. He looks through it until he finds the Candy Man song, then he heads back into the other room. He fiddles around on the piano until he figures out what key the song’s in. Then he’s singing it through. And, well, at least if he has to sing in this stupid show he has the easiest song ever written. So he’s not gonna, like, blank on the words in the middle of the song and only be able to remember the words to every dirty rap song ever written by a Jew.

When they get back to the room, Sue starts the scene up again. And this time—this time, Puck actually _gets_ the song. Actually sings it right. Thank fuck.

Sue looks almost pleased. She even says, “Well, if I have to recast, at least there are worse people I could have cast in this role. You’ll do, Puckerman. Asian—write it in the master book.”

Tina scribbles, but as she’s scribbling she looks up and give him a little smile.

And that’s—well, hell, that’s a pretty good feeling. But it gets even better a few minutes later.

“Hey, Noah. You did a great job out there,” Burt says, Kurt standing a few feet away.

And Puck did okay. He hit most of the notes and shit. But he’s pretty sure at least some of the beat was wildly off. So he just says, “Whatever,” and kind of turns away.

Then Burt’s looking away too. He’s saying, “No, you did good. You have a stunning voice. A stunning voice for a stunning young man.”

And Puck can’t help looking up at him then. Burt’s not meeting his eyes. He looks a little red around the ears, too. And it’s enough—enough to take his day from shit to okay—maybe even all the way to good.

+++

Puck gets a call from his Ma one night while he’s in the middle of rehearsal. “Noah, I’m missing Burt Hummel,” she says.

“How can you miss him, Ma? You’ve never even met him?” Puck says.

Puck’s Ma sighs. “I’m missing Burt’s _measurements_ , Noah.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” Puck asks his Ma. Then he puts his hand over the receiver, turns in Burt’s general direction and yells, “Hey, Burt.”

Burt yells back, “Yeah, Noah?”

“What size suit do you wear?” Puck asks.

Burt starts making his way over to Puck. “Sorry, Noah. I’ve got no frickin’ clue. I’ll get back to you, okay?” He pulls out his cell phone and has a quick hushed conversation.

“Yeah, fine,” Puck says. He takes his hand off the phone. “You hear that Ma?”

His Ma says, “Hear what, Noah? All I could hear on this end of the line was mumbled yelling. I hope you’re not yelling on Sue’s set.”

Puck looks up to see Burt’s ended his call. “Uh—right. I’m…not. Anyway, Burt says he doesn’t know his suit size, but he’ll get back to me. He’s about six feet with, what? Thirty-eight inch waist?” Puck says the last to both his Ma and Burt.

“Thirty-six, thank you very much,” Burt says, giving Puck a dirty look. He sucks his stomach in and pounds on the diaphragm. “Just because I don’t wear a thirty like I did at your age, doesn’t mean I’m completely letting myself go yet.”

“Waist is thirty-six,” Puck says, rolling his eyes in Burt’s general direction.

“And suit size forty-eight according to the wife,” Burt says.

“Wears a forty-eight suit-coat,” Puck relays dutifully into the phone.

“All right, Noah. That’s enough for now. I’ll send the tape measure with you and you can get his inseam next time,” Puck’s Ma says.

“Okay, Ma,” Puck says. “Just don’t overdo it, yeah?”

“Oh hush, you. Have fun at rehearsal. Tell Burt I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Puck’s Ma says.

“Goodnight, Ma,” Puck says.

“Goodnight, Noah,” Puck’s Ma says. And then the call is ended.

Puck turns to Burt, says, “Sorry, man. I don’t know how she does it but every single play, without fail, she loses at least one set of measurements.”

“That’s not what I’d be worrying about if I were you,” Burt says, stepping a little closer to Puck. “I’d worry that you assumed my waist-line was even larger than it is.”

And suddenly Puck’s in a headlock. “Mercy,” he yells after a minute. “Mercy.”

+++

After that, Burt gets a lot more tactile with him. They’re always jabbing each others’ elbows when the kids say something funny. Or else one of them is tripping the other as they’re making their way on the fake ‘stage’ they have set up until they can get on the actual stage. Or they’re giving each other manly hugs in greeting. (Puck’s not sure when that one started, but he’s not turning it down. He could really use a hug right about now. If his Ma doesn’t stop bringing up Rachel’s perfect marriage Puck might consider committing matricide.)

After pulling a double—Santana called in hung over—and not really getting a break all day, Puck’s frickin’ shot. He’s tired, barely keeping his eyes open with it all. And he’s high-strung, almost chews Rabbi Greenburg’s head off for asking him about the color of his waistcoat—like Puck would even frickin’ know. But most of all, he’s sore. Sore straight through. Not just muscles anymore, but all the way through the bone and sinew too. Until he’s just one giant massing hulk of soreness all over.

He sits on the floor—stretches in every way he can think of then starts the cycle all over again. He manages to pop his back good and proper, too. _Score._

Burt’s sitting next to him in a chair, staring at his script like it’ll reveal the mysteries of life or something.

Puck looks up at Burt when Will cuts in again, telling the kids to completely ignore what Sue just said. He jabs Burt in the shin, chuckling. Only Burt doesn’t chuckle back. Burt points between his legs.

“Uh,” Puck says, looking a little askance at Burt. The dude can’t mean to give him a massage, Puck figures, probably just wants to set his book on Puck’s back or something. Not that—people do that… _christ_ , Puck’s tired. Of course, there is always the dirtier route. But Puck’s not going there. He’s not going anywhere near that thought. Hell, he’s not touching that thought with a ten foot pole, he’s so not going near that thought.

Puck scoots in, right between the guys legs, and then Burt’s hands land on Puck’s shoulders. And, yeah. Apparently Burt’s giving Puck a massage. Only not quite a massage, more like a back rub really. A really good firm back rub. And Puck likes to relax when he gets massages or back rubs or _whatever_ , but yeah, that’s not happening.

First off, it’s not happening ‘cause if it does Puck will fall asleep. Right here and now. Which isn’t the best idea in the whole frickin’ world, right? Then, there’s the fact that he tends to moan when he really gets into it. And, yeah, Kurt’s sitting, like, right across the room. Next to Rabbi Greenburg. And then there’s the fact that for some reason Brenda Castle is in the corner snapping photos of everyone like it’s her fucking job or something. And, yeah, she’s probably going for candid shots or some shit, but at this point in his acting career, Puck’s so over the whole notoriety side of acting he’s not even touching it.

So Puck sits, stiff as a board, as Burt works the knots out of his back. Burt starts with his shoulders, just kinda working them loose, warming them up. Then it’s down a little to his upper back, feeling him out. Burt’s hands go lower, lower, until they’re tickling the place his boxer band would be if he wore boxers. Burt grunts a little. Puck figures it must be ‘cause he’s bending over so far. Can’t be good for a guy’s back. Then Burt’s hands are moving back up again. Burt has _big_ hands is the thing. He has big hands that, stretched out, reach all the way to Puck’s sides, so Burt’s kinda inching over Puck’s rib cage.

Burt starts all over again from the top, this time with a little more force. He seems to attack with like a plan or forethought or something. He hits every single one of Puck’s rough spots. But Burt’s still not working with enough force to really get the knots out. Puck’s getting loose, though, which is more than he really asked for.

Puck wants to tell Burt “enough” to say “thanks, dude, but if you keep going any more I’m either gonna fall asleep or get hard” and when Burt’s hands twist up Puck’s ribs again, Puck’s seriously leaning toward the getting hard side of things. But the thing is, Sue and Will are already fighting, like seconds away from a full on knock-down drag-out fight. And Puck really doesn’t want to do anything more to disturb the peace. So he just sort of sits there, biting his lip with increasing force, just to take his mind off _pleasure_ , _warmth_ , _blissed out_ and keep it on the pain.

And Burt’s not helping matters really. Puck’s not sure if it’s been going on from the start and he just didn’t know it at first or if it just started up, but Burt is kind of groaning under his breath, almost panting a little. It’s—well, it sure as hell makes Puck have to bite his lip a helluva lot harder.

And then, between one breath and the next, Burt’s slapping his back.

Puck sighs. It’s such a fucking relief, to have the back-rub over—god must be laughing at him right now.

One thing Puck isn’t, though, is exploitive. He doesn’t take something from somebody without being willing to give in kind. So, Puck gets up from the floor and walks behind the chair. And he starts giving Burt a massage.

And unlike Burt, when Puck gives a massage it’s a _MASSAGE_. Hell, he usually won’t even start on somebody unless they’re laying flat-out on their belly and at least partly naked. But, in the right circumstances, Puck can be persuaded to give upright mostly clothed massages. Usually just if the person is seriously ugly or a jackass or something. But occasionally he just does it ‘cause that’s the only way it works out.

Puck always starts out sort of soft. Just around the neck at first, the edges of the shoulder blades around the neck. And then it’s this gradually increasing pressure. He moves out to the shoulders and Burt moans. He _moans_. Like a sex noise, long and loud. And Puck, well, he can’t stop a massage once he’s started it. His hands just get a life of their own and keep going at it. So, Puck keeps working on Burt.

And Puck should’ve remembered this—why this was such a bad idea. As much as getting a massage has a tendency of making him hard, Puck can’t help getting a boner every time he _gives_ a massage. There’s something so intimate about it.

Between the massage itself and Burt’s moaning, Puck’s more than half-mast, when Sue’s voice cuts through the massage fog. “Candy Man scene.” Puck’s hands keep working for a second then Sue’s voice starts up again. “That means you, Puckerman. If you’re done trying to get into Grease Monkey’s pants.”

And okay. That. That isn’t good. Puck goes to take his place on set, with a sinking feeling in his gut. He can’t help himself from slapping Burt on the back on his way past, though.

+++


	5. Chapter 5

“Seriously, Puckerman?” Santana says, blowing a smoke ring in the air. They’re supposed to be breaking down boxes, but they’re taking a fifteen minute smoke-break instead. Not like the boxes aren’t all going the same place anyway.

“What?” Puck asks, ashing out against the brick wall.

“The guy wants your tail. And you just let him get all handsy with you?” Santana says, giving him a skeptical look.

“Dude, whatever,” Puck says. He aims his butt at the nearest dumpster. Misses. Just that kind of a day.

“Oh, come on,” Santana says, throwing her hip out—all Latina irritation. “That man wants the Puckerman sexperience and instead of telling him ‘no,’ you’re all, ‘oh, yeah, that feels _so_ good’.”

“Christ, just because we gave each other back rubs doesn’t mean he wants to jump me. He’s married, Santana. To a woman,” Puck says. He thinks about lighting up again, but he’s been trying to cut back. Costs a fucking arm and a leg.

Santana snorts. “Like that even matters. Look at you. Fuck, you and I got it on enough times back in the day. And you’re still panting after—“

“Hey, guys,” Sam says, cutting Santana off.

Puck feels his face go bright red. Next to him, Santana starts cackling like the fucking witch she is. Puck elbows her side. Hard.

“Uh—“ Sam says, after a minute of nobody saying anything. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nah,” Puck says, toeing the ground. He links his fingers behind his neck, tries to rub out the tension. “We weren’t talking about nothing at all.”

“Actually,” Santana says, slinking over to Sam, all sultry suddenly, “you are just the man we wanted to see.”

“I am?” Sam asks, all cutely befuddled.

Santana grabs him by the front of his shirt. “Oh, yeah. Settle this argument for us, yeah?” She turns them around somehow, gets Sam situated in the seat she’d been in before—right next to Puck on a crate that was made for one person to sit on comfortably, not two. “So, say Puckerman here has this older dude suddenly take an interest in him.”

“Fuck you,” Puck says. “He’s not ‘taking an interest in me.’ He’s just a nice dude. He has a lot of twenty-something dudes working for him.”

“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he has them _working_ for him. At his _lube_ shop. Getting all hot and sweaty and shit,” Santana says.

Puck rolls his eyes. “Can it. Fuck, he’s just a nice dude who’s taken an interest—“

“Hah! See,” Santana interrupts.

“ _Taken an interest_ in making sure we all get through this play with minimum trauma. Yeah, he’s dealing with my shit right now, but it’s just ‘cause I have shit. If somebody else had shit going on, he’d be all over that instead. He’s just that sort of dude, okay?” Puck pants, breath heavy with suppressed anger. Santana sneers at him. Then the two of them turn to Sam.

“Uh, what was the question again?” Sam asks, a little helplessly.

Santana says, “Is skeezy old dude—“

“Burt,” Puck interrupts, firm.

“Fine,” Santana says with a sigh. “Is _Burt_ going to hit that?” She gestures at Puck, drawing a fucking hourglass figure in the air. Puck—is not amused. “Or isn’t he?”

“Uh, what’re the extenuating circumstances? Did the guy actually ask you out?” Sam asks, looking at Puck in concern. “Is he some kind of creepy stalker or something?”

“No,” Puck says, thoroughly pissed off. “He’s not a stalker and he’s _not_ a skeezy old dude. He’s just a nice guy who likes to give back rubs or something.”

“No, wait,” Santana says. “You’re telling it all wrong. Tell him about the part where he told you you were beautiful.”

“It wasn’t beautiful,” Puck grumbles. “It was stunning.” He catches himself too late, says, “Or something.”

But Santana caught it and latched on like the mangy bitch she is. “Oh ho ho,” she crows. “You like him.” She smirks at Puck. Puck gets up from the crate and lunges at her, but she backs away at the last second. “You do. You _like_ him. You want to have his babies. And grow old together. Oh my god, Puck, when did you turn into such a pussy?”

Puck tackles her into the paper bin. She’s fucking lucky it wasn’t the garbage. If she’d been two feet to the right, she’d be smelling like last week’s spoiled potato salad right now.

“Wait,” Sam says, getting up from the crate. “Puck’s gay?”

Puck drops his shoulders. Says, “Aw, crap,” under his breath. He turns back to Sam, smiles a half-smile at him. “Nah, not gay,” he says.

And Santana’s arms are around him, then. Clinging, almost possessive, but somehow supportive at the same time. “He’s bi,” she says, looking up at him with a dirty grin, “like all the smart people in this world.”

Sam sits back down, shaken. “So, that time you said Han Solo was hot you really meant—like—sexy hot, not over-heated by animal guts hot.”

Puck scratches the back of his neck. Looks down at the ground. “Yep.”

“And,” Sam says, “the time you said you’d do Johnny Depp, you meant you’d sleep with him, not sing his songs.”

“Wait,” Puck says, looking up. “Johnny Depp sings?”

“And the time,” Sam says, “the time you were staring at Goolsby in a Speedo with an ice cream cone, it wasn’t the ice cream you wanted it was Goolsby.”

“Well,” Puck says, rolling his head on his shoulders, “to be fair, I kinda wanted them both equally. It was fucking hot that day.”

“Yeah, in your pants,” Santana says, finally letting him go. “You’re such a horn-dog, Puckerman. Sometimes I wonder why I’m even friends with you.”

“Puck’s awesome,” Sam says, with a huge grin. “Especially his sense of humor.” He chuckles a little to himself. “Remember that time you asked me out on a date?”

Puck buries his head in his hands. Next to him Santana giggles—actually fucking giggles. And Sam—Sam says, “Wait a second.”

+++


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: gratuitous back story, alcohol use, and super oblivious!Sam.

Everyone had planned to go out together. And that was the way it’d started out. But then Brittany and her sisters showed up and the guys and Santana just took off. Puck would’ve taken off too, on a normal day—when Brit and her sisters went out together there were always body shots, and those body shots usually led to something more.

But it wasn’t a normal day. Work had been impossible. Sam was just— _Sam_ —everywhere he looked. His big blue eyes were shining. His perfect teeth were sparkling. And those lips—fuck those lips.

And the day before, Puck’s Ma hadn’t even been able to get out of bed. “ _Slight relapse_ ,” the doctor said. “ _Perfectly fine_ ,” his Ma’d said. _I fucked up, I did that, all my fault_ , Puck had thought to himself.

So after everything else, Puck was fine with a night to get drunk by himself. The bar was crowded, noisy with people. It was almost easiest to be by yourself in a crowd.

Then, suddenly, a blonde head of hair was making its way through the crowd—making its way directly to him. “Hey, Puck. What’d I miss?” Sam had asked, pulling up a bar stool.

“Everyone just took off,” Puck had said, glaring down at his beer. “You can probably catch ‘em if you leave now. Brittany and her sisters wanted to go to Shooters.”

“Nah,” Sam had said, patting Puck on the back. “I’m fine just here. We can hang.”

And if Puck had been more sober he would’ve said no. He would’ve looked at Sam and said, ‘ _Sorry, my Ma’s not doing so hot. Gotta get home. Look after her._ ’ But Puck wasn’t more sober. So when he’d turned to Sam, he’d asked, “Wanna shot.”

And Sam had grinned—like he shot rainbows out of his mouth or something—and said, “Bring ‘em.”

Puck had ordered the shots—Jameson, natch. And as soon as the bartender brought them over Sam had thrust out some money at him. Puck had turned to him, said, “I offered.”

But Sam just grinned a mischievous grin and said, “I’m buying.”

And that—that just made Puck’s chest go all weird. Like his heart had fucking liquefied or something. Gone and expanded in his chest until it was taking up his whole body. And Puck had thought, _Fuck it_. He’d clinked his shot glass against Sam’s and downed it and then he was pulling Sam into the corner.

And Puck was too drunk for this, or maybe not drunk enough, but he was gonna do it. He had to do it. “Sam,” he’d said—brutal, like a knife wound. “Sam, I—I just gotta know. Do you want to go out some time?”

And Sam’s eyes had gone all serious for a second. And then they were crinkling up at the edges, and Sam was laughing—head thrown back, sides heaving laughing. After a couple minutes he’d said, “ ‘Do—do you want to go out with me?’ Your face, Puck. Your face!” And then he’d turned away from Puck, looked in the other direction. He’d said, “Guys, you’ll never believe the one Puck just pulled on me,” and walked back to the bar where the others were, back from a trip to Shooters.

And when your heart expanded that much, apparently it hurt a helluva lot worse when it went back to where it oughta be. Like a giant rubber band just snapped back into place. Fuck.

+++

“What the _fuck_ Puckerman? What the actual _fuck_?” Santana had asked, dragging him into the back room. There was a band playing in the corner, some shit fusion of Irish and punk that Puck didn’t even want to begin to contemplate, but nobody else from work was back there at least. Thank heaven for small miracles, like Nana Connie always said.

“What?” Puck asked all sullen.

Santana started in on him, then. “Did you _actually_ think it’d be a _good_ idea to ask little Sammikins out? Did you think he’d jump for joy at the chance to date a former convict? Did you think he’s been going home every night and writing all about you in his diary? All ‘Dear Diary—Today Puck smiled at me. I think he _likes_ me. Maybe if I’m lucky one day he’ll ask me out on a date. And we can hold hands and skip through the tulips singing songs about love and happiness and peace on earth. Because I’m—‘”

Puck tried to walk away, but she just followed him. When she actually went so far as to follow him into the guys’ bathroom, he finally had enough. He spun around and slammed her into the wall. “Will you shut up? Will you just close your fucking trap for one _fucking_ minute?” When that actually got through to her, he took a second to just breathe in deeply. Once. Twice. “I _know_ , okay. I’m not a _moron_. It’s just…” he let her go then. Too much work to keep her quiet—to fucking try anymore. He walked over to the sink. Splashed water on himself. Maybe, if he was lucky, he figured he could wash the last ten minutes away. Make it like it never happened at all.

A hand landed on his shoulder, then. “God, he’s got you wrapped around his finger, doesn’t he?” Santana asked. Her voice had an unfamiliar tone to it.

Puck looked up at the mirror then, sharp. And the look on her face—he knew that look. He knew that look from when Rachel heard about the accident, from when his Ma told him he couldn’t go to fucking space camp. “Don’t pity me,” Puck said, harsh. He turned, grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

Santana’s spine had straightened, then. She’d grabbed his hands off her shoulders, pushed him away. “As if. Why the fuck would I pity you, Puckerman, when it’s my fucking pocketbook that’s gonna be dry after tonight?”

Puck had looked at her then, eyebrow raised questioningly.

“I figure somebody’s gotta see to it you get good and plastered. And fuck knows why, but apparently that somebody’s gotta be me,” Santana said, running a hand through her hair.

“Really?” Puck said, not believing her for a second.

“Really,” Santana said, firm. “When I’m through with you, you won’t be able to say your own name, let alone open your stupid-ass mouth and tell someone you like him.”

And Puck felt this utter _relief_. ‘Cause, yeah. Alcohol didn’t actually solve anything. But it sure as hell was gonna make everything go away for a while. “I’ll owe you one,” he said.

“Damn straight you will,” Santana said, ushering him out of the men’s room and back up to the bar. She ordered four shots. Puck sat on the barstool and just hoped they’d come soon.

+++


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Puck/OMC sex
> 
> End of back story

Puck was drunk. Puck was _sooooo_ drunk. Puck was so drunk he didn’t remember his own name. He did, however, remember he wanted a smoke. “ ‘Tana. Tana-Nana-Nana-Nana-Nana. I wan’ a cig. Gimme a cig.” He started groping her pockets trying to find a cigarette pack.

“Christ Puckerman,” Santana said. “You smoked the rest of mine two hours ago. Right before you took off without telling me where you were going.”

“Where’d I go?” Puck asked, leaning on Santana a little. She was so soft. Soft and curvy and smelling like fucking cigarettes. Fuck he wanted a cigarette.

“We went for pizza, remember?” Sam said. And, huh? When did Sam get there?

“Sam,” Puck said, launching himself at the guy. “Sam, gimme a cig? C’mon man, please?” He started patting Sam down too—got to his pants pockets and then there was a tug on the collar of his shirt and Santana was pulling him away.

“No candy for you, little boy,” Santana said. And that wasn’t fair. If Puck wanted candy, he could have candy.

“Yer mean ‘Tana,” Puck said.

“Yeah, well, you’ll thank me in the morning,” Santana said.

“Puck, I don’t smoke, anyway,” Sam said.

And then Puck saw it—right there.

“And you really shouldn’t either,” Sam was saying. “Do you know how bad for you those things are?”

“Jesus, can it Troutie. Just shut up your little goodie two shoes bullshit. Puck can smoke if he fucking wants to. Entiende?” Santana said.

“But Puck doesn’t really want to smoke. He’s just doing it to fit in, right Puck?” Sam said.

“Oh shut up! Puck smokes ‘cause he likes to smoke. Tell him Puck!” Santana said.

But Puck wasn’t listening to either of them at all. He was staring across the street at the guy with a cigarette. With a whole pack of cigarettes. “Fuck yeah!” Puck shouted, then he was running across the street and straight at the guy.

“Hey,” Puck said, staring at the cigarette like it was the second coming or something. “Mind if I have a drag.”

“No problem,” the dude said. And then Puck was inhaling smoke. Sweet sweet smoke. Actually, a little too sweet. Menthols, fuck. Well, better than nothing. Puck tried passing the cigarette back, but the dude said, “It’s practically to the filter. You might as well keep that one.” He pulled out the pack, lit another. “I’m Simon. And you’re...?”

“In love,” Puck said, inhaling again. Fuck that was good.

“Puckerman!” a voice said, a couple feet away.

“What the fuck, man. You can’t just cross the street without even looking like that. There are drunk people driving all over town, Puck. You have to be careful,” another voice said.

It was like a splash of cold water, those words. Brought him back to himself a little, though. “Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Santana was saying.

“Puck,” the dude said. And the dude had a name. Might’ve even said it. But fuck if Puck remembered. “Nice to meet you.” And then they were shaking hands. Puck blinked and when he looked again, the dude was offering him another cigarette. “I only get them when I’m out of town,” he said to Puck, low. “I really can’t finish a whole pack in just two days.”

“Hey, I’ll smoke anything you gimme,” Puck said. He looked at the dude, then. It was a little late to first be looking at the dude, but Puck had certain priorities. The dude was cute. Brown hair and blue eyes, and about all these fancy clothes. Like he was wearing a suit or some shit. But he was old enough, at least—wrinkle lines around his eyes.

He really was cute. Cute enough anyway. Maybe not as fucking hot as Sam, but _Sam_ didn’t want Puck anyway. And cute would do in a pinch. And the way the dude was checking him out, it would definitely do tonight.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m really hungry,” dude said. And yeah, Puck was hungry too. Ravenous.

“I could eat,” Puck said, licking his lips and looking at the dude. And yeah, Puck figured food wasn’t all he’d be eating that night. And he was okay with that. More than okay.

“Puck, we just ate pizza,” Sam said, confused. “You had two slices. There’s no way you can still be hungry.”

“Let it go, Samson,” Santana said, pulling him away.

The two of them got into an argument then, but Puck wasn’t really listening to them. He was communing with the gods of tobacco instead. And the gods of tobacco—were fucking awesome.

“Pancakes?” the dude said. And yeah, Puck could do pancakes.

Puck smiled at the dude, opened his mouth to say yeah, and then somebody was pulling him away. “Hey, Puck. Come on. You don’t even know this guy. You and Santana and I were gonna go smoke a bowl, remember?” Sam said, looking all earnest and shit. And Puck couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take earnest puppy-dog Sam looking at him all hopeful and shit. He threw his arms around Sam in a sloppy hug.

And then Santana was weaseling her way between them. “Your cab’s here, Romeo,” she said. And oh, yeah. Pancakes. “Give me a call in the morning. So we can talk about what a dumb-ass you are. You’ll have to, anyways—I got your keys.”

And huh, Puck felt his pockets, and of course, no keys. He held out his hand to her.

“No way. You gave them to me. And told me if you tried to get them back I should slap you. Actually,” she said, then she was slapping him across the face, hard.

“Christ you’re a bitch. Why’m I even friends with you anyway?” Puck said, rubbing his face.

“You’ll remember in the morning,” Santana said. And then she was shoving him back to the side of the curb. And whoa, there was a cab. Huh. “Your carriage awaits, Princess,” Santana said.

“Bitch,” Puck said, getting in the cab. And then there were the dude’s arms, guiding him into the back seat. “Hey, what’s your name again?” Puck was asking, and then the cab was speeding off into the great unknown. Or Pancake Plaza, whichever came first.

+++

“So, S,” Puck said—he’d started calling the guy S when he realized there wasn’t any way in hell he’d actually remember the guy’s name, “what’re you doing in town?”

“I’m in Lima for work, actually,” S said. He put his hand on Puck’s knee. “Pretty boring, I know, but what are you going to do?”

Puck pressed into the hand. Felt good to be wanted like that. “Uh, whatcha getting?” He was gonna say something else, but he couldn’t remember what. Didn’t matter, really.

“The Banana Walnut Waffle,” S said. His hand crept up a little, almost as if he was waiting for Puck to tell him to stop. Like fuck _that_ was gonna happen. “What are you getting?”

Puck tried to look at the menu again, but the print waivered in front of his eyes. Fuck, Santana was good at getting you pie-eyed. “Ah, I’ll just have toast or something,” he said. Seemed safe. Pancake places had to have toast, right. It was like in their contract or something.

“What else?” S asked. His hand moved a little higher, and hello, there it was, right inside his thigh. “You want some baked apples?” His finger traced the seam of Puck’s jeans for a second, just stroking back and forth a little. Then it started to move up. “I hear they make fantastic baked apples here. Spicy. And moist.”

And then the server was clearing her throat, and like that S’s hand was just— _gone_. Like it was never there in the first place or something. Which—what the fuck. “What can I get you?” she asked with this huge smile.

S said, “I’ll have the Banana Walnut Waffle and Puck here will have toast and an order of baked apples.” He had a huge smile plastered on his face too. Smiles all around then.

“What kind of toast did you want?” the server asked.

For a second Puck expected S to answer for him again, but then he figured that maybe he’d get to choose himself. “Ah—uh, dunno. Whaddya got?”

The server grinned again, like it just made her day or something to answer questions for drunk assholes. “White, wheat and rye,” she said.

And it was funny, Puck didn’t even _like_ rye bread all that much, but for some reason he felt his mouth opening up and found himself saying, “Rye.”

The server scribbled something down on her pad and then she was looking at him all concerned and shit. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?”

Then S turned on him, too. “Seriously, Puck. Anything you want. I’m buying.” And shit, if Puck’d known that, he would’ve like asked for some kind of fucking feast or something. But, it wasn’t like he was that hungry, not enough to eat anything that big anyway, so he just asked, “You got muffins here?”

And the server was nodding, head bobbing up and down like a bobble head on crack or something. “Sure. Of course. What kind do you want? We have chocolate chip, banana nut, cranberry pecan, lemon poppy seed, citrus explosion, double fudge chip, and of course bran.”

And that made Puck wonder, why was it servers always went through the whole list when they knew the customer always wanted one of the first two? “Yeah, I’ll have banana nut,” Puck said.

She gave them both a big smile and then she was rushing off to the kitchens, saying, “Great, it should be up in just a few minutes,” over her shoulder.

S was smiling at him, hand making its way back to Puck’s knee. Puck took S’s hand firmly and moved it back to where it had been when the server came up. “Yeah?” S asked.

“Oh hell, yeah,” Puck said, sitting back, just riding the mellow until their food showed up. The haze of almost-sex was enough to leave him floating, no longer attached to the booth—five feet above it at least.

+++

They were sitting outside, waiting for the cab again. Puck was smoking—happy as he’d been in fuck knew how long. “So—ah—I don’t know how to put this exactly, but do you—ah—want to go someplace? Take this further?” S asked.

And Puck snorted at that. Slapped his leg and snorted and almost laughed, except that would’ve meant taking the cigarette out of his mouth, and that—would be a bad thing. “S. You just bought me a meal. You really think I’m gonna turn you down after that?”

S blushed at that—color creeping up over the collar of his shirt. It made his face look weird in the glow of halogen lights. “I—I don’t exactly do—well, this. I’m not the kind of guy who does one-night-stands. But—it’s been a while, and you—god you’re hot.”

Puck smirked a little, ashed out.

“So, you want to then?” S asked, hopeful little smile chasing across his face.

“Sure,” Puck said, standing up. The ground was cold, and as much as Puck wanted his ass to freeze—he really really didn’t.

“Ah—well, I obviously can’t ask you back to my place, since my place is in Chicago. Unless you’re up for a flight.” S chuckled a little. When Puck didn’t join in, he sobered, said, “Your place—“

“Is out,” Puck said, picturing his Ma looking at him with disapproval. “I’m from outta town too.” And if he’d said he was from town before, well too fucking bad.

“Right,” S said, not looking like he necessarily believed Puck, but not out and out doubtful either. “Hotel it is, then.”

The cab showed up then, and Puck wondered for a second if he’d be paying for the hotel or if the dude would pay for the hotel too. ‘Cause that—that would be fucking awesome.

+++

The dude paid for the hotel. Not only that, the dude paid for a fucking nice hotel. Their room—was a suite. Fuckin’ A. Not only that. Their fucking suite was a smoking room.

“I don’t usually get smoking,” S had said while passing the plastic over to the dude at the desk. “I find it difficult to sleep in smoking rooms. But it doesn’t seem right to separate you and your cigarettes.”

Puck had smirked at that—stretched, and then felt for the cig currently tucked behind his ear. _Fuck yeah. Talk about living the good life._

They’d rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. It was like, as soon as the door slid closed, S turned into another person entirely. A person who had like fifteen hands. And tongues. Fuck there were tongues everywhere.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” S had whispered in Puck’s ear, biting at his jaw and grinding into his thigh.

“Jesus,” Puck had said. The guy’s hand was cupping his balls—rolling them as well as he could through Puck’s jeans. Puck felt his head connect with the back wall of the elevator. Then S was sucking wet bites onto his neck. Licking fast over his collar bone then latching on like it was gonna take a pry bar to pull him off. “ _Fuck_.”

Then the elevator doors opened and S was tugging him down the hall. “Come on,” S said, using the key card on the door. The light flashed red once, twice, then Puck pulled the card from S’s hand—used it himself, shoving it roughly in. The light flashed green, thank fuck.

And then they were in the room and it was all hands and mouths and quickly removed clothing. Puck kicked his shoes under the bed, pried his shirt over his head. S was tugging his socks off when Puck looked up, and for some reason Puck found it uproariously funny. He started laughing, rolling around on the bed.

“What are you laughing at?” S asked, all mock serious. “Huh? What are you laughing at?” And then S was on top of him again, attacking his mouth with the intensity of too many nights spent alone.

S sucked on Puck’s lower lip—hard—until it felt like it’d grown to double its size. That almost made Puck laugh again, but then S was slipping a hand in the back of Pucks jeans and that—that made Puck stop cold. “Uh,” Puck said.

“No?” S asked. His hand moved back up to Puck’s back. Stroked him a little there. “It’s fine if this is—ah—too much. No pressure.”

“How about I just blow you?” Puck asked.

And S’s eyes were fucking greedy with want. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard. He tugged his pants down. Bent over—to grab a condom probably, but fuck that. Puck hated the taste of latex.

Puck grabbed S’s cock. Gave it a once over. It was a nice cock—cut and sort of perfect looking in the way that no real cocks are. S was fully shaved, too. Made him look naked. Made him look vulnerable.

Puck sucked the head in his mouth—then went down, down until he was meeting the fucking pubic bone. Puck wasn’t very good at giving head sober, but drunk—drunk he could fucking deep-throat like gang-busters.

“Okay then,” S said, voice coming out a squeak. “Uh.” Puck’s head bobbed up and down. Then he swallowed, hard. “Oh sweet fuck,” S said.

Puck tasted precum the next time he bobbed up. But then he was back down, swallowing convulsively.

He went at it—using his throat and tongue to work S over until his was a writhing mess on the bed. After a few minutes of it, S grabbed Puck’s shoulder—hard—fingers digging in until Puck almost felt each individual one on his soul or something.

With his other hand, S tugged on Puck’s mohawk, babbling, “Oh, yeah. I’m—I’m coming.”

And then Puck’s throat was getting coated with come. And, yeah, he was a real trooper at drunk deep-throating, but he’d never gotten good at drunk swallowing. His mouth slipped off, and then he was choking jizz and spit all over S’s thigh. S didn’t seem to mind too much. Actually S seemed to be kind of passed out. Puck figured he might as well join him—who really cares about coming anyway?

+++

The next morning Puck had woken up with this ridiculous need to piss, but when he’d tried to get up, he found himself firmly attached to S’s thigh. With dried come.

“Oh, that’s attractive,” Puck said quietly, prying himself off carefully. Somehow S slept through it all, not even waking up when Puck had to roll him to get fully detached.

Puck pissed for what felt like forever, and then he started the real walk of shame. He gathered up his clothes—it took him over ten minutes to find his shoes—and then he wrote a note for S. The dude was probably married or something, but if there was a chance of more of that money coming Puck’s way, Puck wasn’t gonna turn it down.

S.

Had a blast. Let me know if ur in town. We can hook up again.

Puck

As an afterthought he scribbled his phone number down. After all, dude like that wasn’t gonna abuse it or anything.

Then it was just a short walk down the hall to the elevators. He checked his cell phone. Somehow he still had plenty of time to shower and get into work, fuck knew why. Then he remembered. His fucking keys. For that matter, his fucking truck. “Santana, you bitch,” he said to himself under his breath.

The elevator dinged for the lobby then, and he got out, tried to avoid the clerk’s eyes. When he got to the entrance he dialed Santana. When the phone picked up, Puck said, “Is there a reason why you’re the biggest bitch in the universe or were you just naturally born that way?”

“Puck,” came a voice that definitely wasn’t Santana. It was far too male for Santana. In fact it almost sounded familiar. It sounded a little like— “Dude, are you okay? I was so worried last night. You just took off with that guy. He could’ve like axe murdered you or something.”

Puck looked at his cell phone. Yeah, Santana’s phone number. He’d hung up and banged his head against the wall. _What the fuck did I do to deserve this?_

+++


	8. Chapter 8

“So, yeah. After I found out that you two had slept together I got the message loud and clear. I mean, I knew you didn’t think of me that way, but the fact that you could actually sleep with Santana put the fucking nail in the coffin, man,” Puck says, stopping to inhale from his sixth—no, fuck, gotta be more than that—cigarette. “I mean, nothing against you Santana. You’re a stone cold bitch. But you gotta admit, anybody who’d sleep with you is at least a little bit man-whore.”

Santana punches him in the kidney. “You asshole.”

“Santana and I didn’t sleep with each other,” Sam says.

“Oh, yeah. I’m the asshole. At least I didn’t sleep with the person you were interested in but too chickenshit to ask out,” Puck says, then coughs ‘ _Brittany_ ’ into his fist.

“Santana and I didn’t sleep together,” Sam says. Then he seems to catch what Puck just said. “Wait—you’re actually interested. Like…interested, interested?”

“Uh,” Puck says, looking at Santana a little helplessly. Then he remembers—Sam and Santana totally slept with each other. Puck had confronted Santana over it. And Santana hadn’t denied it. “Santana—“

“Oh, don’t you dare pull the Brittany card on me. You probably have slept with her. And she was too dense to remember it.” Santana stops then, puts a finger to her cheek. “That’s it. She doesn’t remember it. Because it wasn’t memorable.”

“Like, do you _like_ like me or just like me?” Sam says, looking at Puck like he can read the answer on his fucking face.

And he better damn well not be able to.

But still, something isn’t adding quite up. “Santana,” Puck barks.

“It’s not like I remember much from when we slept together,” Santana says, musingly.

Sam keeps going like Santana’s not there at all. “Because, the thing is, if you _like_ like me, you should really know that I’m not gay. Or, you know, bi. But if you really _like_ like me—I mean, really a lot—I’d be willing to try it out. You’re one of my best friends Puck.”

“Hard to believe, I know, but you’re not actually a sex god, Puckerman,” Santana says.

And that’s it—that’s fucking enough. Puck grabs Santana by the arm and shouts straight in her face, “Santana, did you and Sam sleep together or not?”

Santana looks up at him for a second then she’s looking back at the ground, shaking her head.

But Sam’s still talking in the background. “Only, without the sex. ‘Cause I’m not gay. But we could totally hang out together more. Maybe even hold hands. That can’t be too different, right?”

Santana looks up at Puck then. “Do you see? Do you get it? Why I let you believe we’d slept together?”

And Puck looks over at Sam—Sam who’s smiling at him, big as the fucking sun, and saying, “And maybe we could try kissing. I know there’s stubble, but if we shaved right beforehand I could hardly tell at all. Right? Right, Puck?”

And yeah, Puck gets it. “Hey, Sam,” Puck says, walking over to Sam. He throws a hand on Sam’s shoulder, thinks _brotherly_ to himself as hard as he fucking can. “Sam, buddy. Santana was confused. I don’t like you that way. I just wanted to sleep with you. Ya know, you’re pretty hot stuff. But now that we’re friends that kinda went away.”

Sam’s smile gets even bigger somehow. “Really, you thought I was hot?” he asks. “Man, that’s so cool. Nobody ever thinks I’m hot.”

Puck bites his lip, feels his heart breaking all over again. “You just keep telling yourself that, Evans.” Behind him he feels Santana’s hand on his back. He reaches back with his free hand, grasps hers tight.

+++

Puck and Santana sit in the break room, Santana just holding his hand. “He doesn’t get it,” she tries.

“I know that!” Puck says, pissed, squeezing her hand for all he’s worth. But like that his anger melts away and he’s left feeling like shit, Santana giving him the evil eye.

“You don’t get to take this out on me, Puckerman. I’m not your girlfriend or your mother or anything else to you other than this,” she gives his hand a little shake, ends up rapping it against the table.

Puck winces. It skinned his knuckle a little. But then she’s soothing her thumb over the cut, and looking at him, just looking at him, like she can figure him out somehow if she stares long enough. Put the numbers together and come up with the answer.

“It’s just…” and Puck didn’t mean to speak. Doesn’t have anything to say really, but for some reason he’s talking anyway. “I don’t get it. Why’d you let me believe that all these months? Why, Santana?”

“Didn’t matter,” Santana says.

“Whaddya mean it didn’t matter?” Puck says, pissed again. “Of course it mattered. Christ, Santana!” He looks at where the blood’s starting to dry on his hand, thinks about hitting it again. Seems right that he’s bleeding—fitting somehow. “I hated you. I hated your guts. For, christ, over a month. How can that not matter?”

“Tell me something. Are we friends?” Santana asks, squeezing his hand, looking down at it.

“What the fuck, Santana? Answer the fucking question,” Puck says.

“No!” Santana says—shouts. And then she’s looking at him, right in the eye. “You answer the fucking question Puckerman. Are we friends? Or aren’t we?” She tightens her hold on his hand, fingernails sinking into skin. And now his skinned knuckle is going to have a lot of bloody friends all over his hand.

“Of course we’re friends. Fuck!” Puck says. He looks back down at his hand—tries to free it from Santana’s grip.

Santana squeezes even tighter for a second. “Puck!” she says. But as soon as he makes eye contact with her she’s loosening her grip until their hands are just sort of touching. “Puck, what kind of friend would I be if I saw you in a bad situation and didn’t do something about it? Tell me. If I hadn’t let you believe Sam and I’d fucked, would you have gotten over it? Would you’ve gotten over him?”

Puck shakes his head, slow. Thinks about it for a second. ‘Cause that night—that night, Puck was so ready to just throw it all away. Throw away everything but _waiting_. Throw his fucking life away waiting for Sam to acknowledge he was somebody worth wanting. And the next morning? Before he thought Santana and Sam had done the nasty? Had it faded any? Really?

“Nah,” he says, eventually. Then he’s leaning over the table, kissing her on the cheek. Whispering in her ear, “Thanks for lookin’ out for me babe.”

When he looks up to see Sam looking at them with a big fucking smile on his face, it’s easy to push down the feelings. ‘Cause try as he may, Puck knows—knows—that Sam’s never gonna be into him like that. Puck just wishes it felt a little better to let it go.

+++


	9. Chapter 9

Puck thinks about heading home after work, but his Ma mentioned getting the program from Rachel’s wedding. And Puck’s not that much of a masochist.

He would spend the night chilling with Sam, but it’s been a little awkward between them since Sam found out. Not like he’s acting different or anything. More like he’s acting so frickin’ normal it has to be a show. So, that’s right out.

He opens up his phone, thinks about calling Tina. She said the other day that they should get a drink sometime. Dealing with thirty rugrats nightly is enough trauma to require some serious binging. But somehow, instead of dialing Tina’s number, he finds himself calling Burt.

“Noah,” Burt says from the other side of the line. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Uh—“ Puck says, scratching his eyebrow. It’s not exactly like he can just ask the dude out for a beer or something. “You wanna go out for a beer or something?” Except apparently he can.

“Tell you what—“ Burt says, sounding a little preoccupied, “why don’t we head over to the UOL Flicks instead?”

Every Friday night over summer, the little community college puts on a free movie on the quad. Anyone from the community can show. People just grab lawn chairs or blankets or just pull up a chunk of grass and watch the movie.

Of course, the reason they can do it for free is that the movies are pretty much crap. They’re all stupid ‘B’ monster movies or ridiculous black and white romances. Puck hasn’t been to see it since he was probably Kurt’s age.

Puck’s about to decline, just hang up and call Tina and go out to get good and plastered, but then he figures, what the hell. If it’s really bad he can just cut. “Yeah,” he says, over the phone line. “Why the hell not?”

+++

They take separate cars. Of course. Why wouldn’t they? It’s not a date or anything. When Burt shows up, Puck sees his convertible for the first time.

Puck kind of figured it’d be the usual mid-life crisis vehicle, big and red and shaped like a penis, but Burt surprises him. “It’s a DeSoto,” Burt says, buckling the cover into place. “A ’57 Firesweep. I got this baby and she was hardly running, but now—“ Burt runs a hand over the side of the car—“now she runs like a dream.”

It’s white. It’s white and it _looks_ like a car from the fifties. It’s got these fins in back, and all this chrome in front. And it could be the coolest thing Puck’s ever seen.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Puck says, running a hand over the hood. He turns to Burt, smile fighting across his face. “I really wasn’t expecting this.”

And Puck’s never been good at this kind of thing. The two people just talking thing. That’s why sex always comes into it. He gets nervous and instead of making a joke or asking a question, or, ya know, just staying fucking quiet, he always opens his big fat mouth and asks if the other person wants to fuck. And they usually say yes.

Lucky that’s not gonna happen here. Just two guys, watching a movie together. One of them straight and, like, married and shit, and the other one pretending to be straight so as not to upset the first dude’s delicate sensibilities or what-the-fuck-ever.

Then Burt’s opening his trunk and pulling out a blanket. _A_ blanket. One—single—blanket. Apparently they were two guys watching a movie together with one blanket.

“Hope you don’t mind heading over here instead. Finn and I go every week, and I’ve gotten kinda used to it. With him being gone the rest of the summer, I figure I’ll end up just chilling out here alone,” Burt says. He walks over to a spot far back from where everyone else is sitting and spreads out the blanket.

“Finn is…?” Puck asks, looking at the distance between Burt’s blanket and the rest of the movie watchers. There was a reason for it. Had to be. Maybe the dude didn’t like crowds.

“Finn’s my stepson. Carole’s boy. He’s a good kid. Doesn’t always make the best choices, but he’s got a good sense of right and wrong,” Burt says. The blanket’s up against a huge elm tree, and Burt sits down, using it as a chair back.

It seems weird for this mysterious family to be out there. This stepson Finn, and Carole, who must be Burt’s wife. Burt does such a good job of separating the play from the rest of his life, it sometimes seems like there’s no one but Burt and Kurt.

“Where’s he at for the summer?” Puck asks. He hopes Burt’s not the kind of stepdad who just shoves his stepkid into boring summer camp after boring summer camp.

“He’s on a trip to Europe. Carole convinced me to let him go with his girlfriend’s family if he pulled all ‘A’s and somehow he did,” Burt says. “I still think Kurt helped him with his homework, but it’s not like I could prove it.”

“Girlfriend, huh? How old is he?” Puck asks.

“Sixteen,” Burt says. He pats the blanket next to him. “Sit down, Noah. Pull up some blanket. The movie’s gonna get started soon.”

Puck sits down, a little awkward. The blanket’s plenty big enough, one of those plaid ones that people are always sitting on in the movies. But the tree—well it’s big enough, but if he sits next to Burt they’ll definitely be touching. And straight dudes generally like their space.

“Geez,” Burt says, tugging him back against the tree. “I’m not gonna bite. At least, not unless you ask me to.”

And that—that’s something Puck would totally say himself. Puck starts to laugh. Then, somehow, Burt’s got an arm behind his back. Not touching inappropriately or anything, hardly touching at all really. But—but it still makes Puck break into goose bumps.

“So,” Puck says—tries to think of something to say after that, but he’s got nothing.

“Oh, good,” Burt says, pointing to the giant white sheet of a screen. “It’s the really creepy musical.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Puck asks.

Burt just grins at him.

+++

It turns out to be a very good thing. Burt goes through the whole movie doing voiceovers that put MST3K to shame.

“They do the same movies every year,” Burt says, as he’s folding the blanket up. “They always show ‘em in a different order. Like that’s gonna make people believe they got a whole new line-up or something.”

Puck laughs, feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time. “So, you up for that beer now?”

“Ah,” Burt says, shifting his hat. “Don’t suppose you’d take a rain-check? I’m working on a big project tomorrow. Kind of want to get to sleep sometime before two.”

Puck’s about to object, say there’s no reason for them to be out any later than eleven, but he figures that if Burt wanted to go out he would’ve said so in the first place.

“Yeah,” Puck says. “Rain-check. Sounds good,” Puck says. He’s about to get into his truck when Burt’s tugging his shoulder, turning him around.

Then they’re hugging, full out bear-hug hugging. “Have a good night, Noah,” Burt says, giving him one last pat on the back.

Puck feels himself smile as he gets in the truck. It will be a good night. He can just tell.

+++


End file.
